“Do you think any one would have me, Mrs. Leach?” he asked, as he leant on his elbow and looked up into her glorious eyes. She was the Honourable Mrs. Leach, well-connected, fashionable, handsome, and--oh, climax!--“smart.” Yes, the idea was an illumination. How well she would look at the head of his table and in the landau! “Dear Mr. West, how humble you are! I am sure you would--(she meant his money)--make any reasonable woman happy.” She glanced at him timidly, and looked down and played coyly with her châtelaine. What eyelashes she had, what a small white ear, what a pretty hand! His own was already gently laid upon it, the words were actually on his lips, when a bareheaded page burst through an adjacent path, breathless from running. He had a telegram in his hand, and halted the moment he caught sight of his master, who instantly withdrew his hand and became the alert man of business. Mrs. Leach was a lady, so she was unable to breathe an oath into her moustache,--had oaths been her safety-valve. She, however, thought some hasty thoughts of round-faced pages who brought telegrams (which she kept to herself). Mr. West, however, was not so self-possessed. As soon as he cast his eyes over the telegram he gave vent to a loud exclamation of impatience, and then subsided into an inarticulate mutter, whilst the page and the lady devoured him with their eyes! “Bad news, I’m afraid,” she said sympathetically. “Um--ah, yes. My stockbroker in London has made a most confounded mess of some business. Buys in when I tell him to sell out. I wish I had him by the ear this minute.” “Is there an answer, sir?” asked the page. “Yes; I’m coming in directly. Tell the fellow to wait.” And Mr. West and the handsome widow turned towards the house. This vile telegram had entirely distracted his ideas. His mind was now fastened on the Stock Exchange, on the money market; he had not a thought to spare for the lady beside him. “It’s the twenty-ninth, is it not?” he asked. “Yes.” “I must go home sooner than I intended. I shall have to be in London next week. The fox is his own best messenger” (and the fox was going to escape!). Mrs. Leach had intended remaining in her present comfortable quarters for another fortnight. This odious telegram had upset her plans. “Then, you will not return here?” “Oh no. What would be the good of that?” “It seems a pity. You will be losing all the lovely autumn tints. October is a charming month.” “Yes; but it is not charming when some one at a distance is making ducks and drakes of your coin, and I’d rather see the colour of my own money again than any autumn tint,” was the practical remark. “I have had a most delightful visit here. I shall never, never forget dear Clane, nor all your kindness and hospitality.” “You must come to us in London.”